Fragments of the Quiet Mind

In the realm of endings, lingered remnants lie, Transformed, unrecognizable, yet enduring, No longer adorned with familiar labels, Nor the profiles once known, they persist. Imagine the actors in this play of cessation, Aware of its continuation, a paradox of existence, Unfolding within an unmarked relationship, Unveiling depths beyond the ordinary. Haunted parks, offices, and well-trodden paths, Bearing witness to flourishing connections, While also embracing the deaths of others, A cycle of creation, destruction, and rebirth. Now, envision a bond that chose stillness, Resigned to perish where it once thrived, Foregoing the openness, honesty, and tales, Conversations reduced to silent gazes. Yet, amid this perpetual continuity, Can we proclaim that it truly ended? For the essence of respect, care, and truth, Endures, transcending the labels cast aside. Thus, within the crucible of my weary mind, These thoughts surrender, bidding farewell, To contemplate the enigma of conclusion, Leavi...

  I was walking home that evening, the city buzzing around me like a restless beast. The streetlights flickered unevenly, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch just to reach us. Ahead, a girl moved alone, her steps quick but cautious. Then I heard it—voices, low and crude, slicing through the hum of the night. A group of boys, laughing and shouting lewd remarks, their words sharp and unwanted like a sudden gust of cold wind. The girl didn’t stop. She didn’t even glance back. But the air between us shifted. That noise—cheap, careless—was enough to freeze the moment, to make the invisible weight of the streets tangible. I saw her tighten her shoulders, quicken her pace, vanish into the shadows faster than before. Something inside me snapped. I walked up to the boys, my voice low but steady, making sure they knew their game wasn’t welcome here. They faltered, surprise flickering in their eyes, shadows retreating as the tension thickened. The girl looked at me, gratitude soften...

Philosophical writing is the only sensible kind of writing. That’s what a ‘friend’ posted as his Facebook status. It’s sad to see how pride eats up a person and this usually happens to people who thinks in levels and not kinds.  The dismaying thing here is not against his premise but in his injunctive conclusions.  Philosophy isn’t for the elite, it belongs to all those who have a taste for meaning and questioning.  It’s horribly flawed to assume bizarre and contentious propositions regarding writing (as how people don’t think and simply post updates on FB) and end up with, let me say, a similarly horrible flawed conclusion. Facebook statuses, twitter tweets, instagram captions, blog entries and all, it’s basically a form of writing. I think the primary purpose of writing is to share information (either it’s an info that people are concerned with or not, the argument here is that, the writer wants to bare it anyway.)  Although some pompous people create a series of ...

Imagine the paradox of an ending: where something that has concluded lingers on, not in its original guise or with its former labels, but in a new, elusive form—an uncharted territory of untold connections that surpass the ordinary. Envision this ending as perceived by the participants who once breathed life into it. They are acutely aware that, although it has ended, its essence continues to ripple through their lives. This continuation manifests as the echo of experiences yet to be fulfilled: the unspoken truths, the raw honesty, the stories left untold, and the unspoken dialogues expressed through mere glances. Perhaps this is why parks, offices, and frequented spots seem to be haunted—where the living and the departed intertwine. These spaces bear witness to the vibrant bloom of relationships and the quiet demise of others. Thus, a cyclic phenomenon emerges: a dance of visits and experiences, creation and destruction, only to spiral back into re-creation. Now, consider a relationsh...